The Sweet Taste of Sweat in the Morning

Breathless and shirtless

I had man-sweat all over me. This isn’t something a gay girl gets to say often! I was also lying breathless next to a panting, shirtless man whose proportions suggested he was merely here searching for the hammer he dropped from up in Asgard. And no, the sweat and the panting weren’t from the same men. Now that’s something not even a straight girl gets to say often. (Or ever!)

Unless you’re a CrossFitter of course. Which I am. Or the kind of movie star whose CV includes sword swallowing. Which I’m not.

Injury free - just my luck!

I suppose you’re wondering how I ended up with the sweat of a nameless stranger on my face. It’s simple; I ran into him at CrossFit Platinum. Yes, literally. I was amped when the day’s workout included “10 m shuffle runs”. It sounded like something that happens sideways, and more importantly, slowly. Turns out that the “shuffle” is silent and it really just means “10 m runs”. For time!

And so it was, as I was screeching up and down along the concrete strip in front of the gym, contemplating whether awesome other-coach Lisa would help me shuffle off somewhere quiet with something cold to drink for the rest of the class if I “accidentally” tripped and ploughed into the concrete, when I ran into a sweat soaked chest. The chest was attached to sundry other bits of man, all seeming rather rough and rugged, but sadly not rough or rugged enough to cause the kind of injury I was fantasizing about. Damn.

I mulched back inside, squelching as I moved.

How hot am I? Ask the dude standing in my sweat.

Now granted, under normal circumstances, I’d feel a little self conscious about a random exchange of sweat. Or about watching someone slosh through a puddle of my perspiration. But what with not being able to breathe; or stand; I really didn’t care just then. Hey, that’s the way you roll when you’ve smacked yourself in the face with the bar practicing cleans and you’re pretending the tears are just chalk dust in your eyes. Which of course they were. Honestly.

Soaking wet and super sexy. Maybe.

By the time the class ended and I was speadeagled on the floor near Thor’s more athletic brother, the gym was strewn with damp, crumpled CrossFitters. I’ve heard that if you perspire enough start to sweat blood so I held my hand up to check, just in case, but of course, all I could see was fog condensing against my glasses.

Why am I telling you this?

Because you might be one of those people who think you’ll feel like an idiot doing CrossFit unless you’re fitter/stronger/skinnier/better. Or because you might be one of those girls who think treadmills and air-conditioned gyms are where it’s at. If you are, all I can say is:

1. when you’re working out so hard your underwear’s holding a primordial pool capable of spawning life; you won’t care if you look like an idiot or not because you can’t think when your brain’s sweating; and

2. our boys are all muscle and they train with their shirts off. Just saying.